


The Gift

by 74days



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bullying, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Magic, Secrets, Soul Bond, The Gift AU, everyone has a gift, everyone pays a price, rating and additional tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-01 07:19:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10183859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/74days/pseuds/74days
Summary: The thing about the Gift, was that you never quite knew what you were going to get, and what it was going to cost.Sometimes it cost a lot, and early - for such little payback that it hardly seemed worth it. It sometimes cost something you might never miss - and change your whole life. Sometimes it was a gift at birth, or a curse at death, but it always happened.





	1. Chapter 1

 

When Jack Laurent Zimmerman was born, his parents were beyond thrilled. He was a weird looking baby, that was for sure, but then, Alicia wasn’t too worried - she’d seen Bobs baby pictures and he turned out just fine. The hospital room was softly lit as they waited, excited and nervous. They both knew that the Gift was something special, something magical that could change a whole life. 

Alicia lost all her memories before her 4th birthday, but that was well worth it for the smile that could light up a room, the smile that got her into modeling, the smile that stopped Bad Bob Zimmerman on the ice, dead in his tracks. Some vague memories of a long forgotten birthday party weren’t to compare - and afterall, what adult really remembers anything of value from that age? She had been waiting for this moment since she’d found out she was pregnant, her excitement only matched by Bob, who was practically vibrating out of his seat by the crib, Jack in his arms.

He laughed when he told her - when she asked what he’d lost and what he’d gained. “I’ll never grow a playoff beard.” He’d said, trying to look downcast but his eyes sparkling at her with a secret mirth. Her laugh made him laugh. “Don’t!” He’d managed, giving her a playful little push. “I get no end of chirps from the boys. It’s a hockey tradition!” 

She hadn’t known a thing about hockey and she didn’t care two licks about a beard that would cover up that jawline. “What about your gift?” She asked, sliding a little closer, feeling the warmth of his body through the shirt he was wearing. 

“Always land a punch.” He said, maybe a little proud, boasting a bit. “They don’t call me Bad Bob for nothing.” He’d winked. 

Now though, years after that first meeting, here they were, waiting for the Light to come and bless thier own son, and both of them couldn’t help but hold their breath when midnight struck. 

Alicia had been to a few Midnight Light events - some of her friends had opted to host lavish parties for their newborns, but both her and Bob thought it was a private moment between their new family, a bond they could keep forever in their hearts and memories. 

Sure enough, once midnight struck, tiny lights started forming in the corners of the room, slowly edging towards the still sleeping Jack in his father's strong arms. It only took a few minutes for the shape to form, not quite enough to recognize but instantly recognisable because of it. 

Alicia felt her breath hitch, saw Bob swallow hard. 

“I will take his first last breath.” The solid light said, before dissolving back into darkness. 

The new parents looked at each other and blinked.

Because what the hell did that mean?

* * *

 

When Eric Richard Bittle was born, his parents waited up till midnight, looking at the tiny, tiny baby in the cot by the bed. Suzanne had a rough time with the birth, and they weren’t quite sure if the little one would pull through, but he had. 8 weeks early and looking so tiny that both his parents were scared to pick him up, both already so deep in love with him that they dreaded what was going to happen.

Both of them had been on the losing side of the Gift - paying too high a price for what they were given. For Coach, at the age of four years and three weeks - his name was taken in payment for the ability to write with both hands. For a young boy to go through his formative years being called “You” or “He” or even, when his parents didn’t think he could hear them: “It.”

It wasn’t until after he’d spent his teenage years being referred to by his shirt number that he managed to find a name that people could call him without it getting stuck in the throat - and he’d been Coach ever since. He could write with both hands, but he couldn’t give his son his name - had to use Suzanne's name when they got married. For a prideful man, it was too high a price.

He tried not to let it show though, because his wife, his loving, perfect wife, lost so much more. When she was 19 years old, half way through college, she paid the price of her gift. In the middle of a lecture - the words on the page started to spin and twirl, jumbling up so much that she could no longer read them at all. And then that was it - she could still write letters, but when she tried to write a word it used the wrong ones, and that was that. She dropped out of college and married Coach. 

All for the ability to know when to pick the ripest fruit. 

They weren’t the family down the hall, staying awake with treats and cakes, waiting for the Light to arrive and bless their newborn. They knew just how hard it could be. 

“Maybe he’ll be lucky.” Suzanne had said, when they found out that it was a boy. “Maybe he’ll get something really… really  _ worth  _ it.” Her hands though, carefully folded around her swollen stomach - unconsciously trying to shield her unborn son from what could be. 

“Yeah.” Coach managed, past the lump in his throat. He didn’t hold out a lot of hope. 

Midnight hit, and lights started forming in the corners of the room, drawn towards the crib like little fireflies. They’d seen enough movies to know what to expect - but both of them still felt drawn in, spellbound by the delicate lights and gentle, floating orbs. 

The shape wasn’t a person - when the light started to form into a single shape. Some people called it a Fae, others and Angel, but everyone agreed, it wasn’t a person. Vaguely person shaped, if you half closed your eyes and didn’t quite look directly at it. 

It looked like living light. 

“That's my son.” Coach found himself saying, getting to his feet while Suzanne hid her face in her hands. “That's my baby boy, and if you hurt him… if you hurt my boy,” His throat closed up at the thought of what could be, panic and fear and so much love for his child that he felt lightheaded.

“I will take his joyous childhood.”

And Coach found out you can’t punch living Light, no matter how much you try.

* * *

 

Eric always knew that his childhood was… not good. It was never going to be, nothing would change that. He was - according to everyone who knew him - a bright, bubbly baby who smiled at everyone and gave the best smiles to sad looking strangers he’d spy from his stroller. He was an inquisitive toddler, always getting into things he shouldn’t, the bag of flour, the VHS machine, anywhere where those little pudgy fingers could wriggle their way into. 

It seemed that things were going okay for little baby Eric, until he turned 4 years old. 

His parents did everything they could to mitigate the damage. Coach built a bed with no space under it so that Eric might sleep better knowing that there was simply not enough room for the monsters under the bed to grab him in the night.

Suzanne put locks on the closet doors so they wouldn’t open through the night, filled with dark, shadows to frighten her son. 

A nightlight, but that cast too many shapes - Eric learned to sleep with the lights turned on.

There was nothing they could do about the night terrors, the way sometimes Eric would scream like he was being murdered in his sleep, unable to wake up, or when he would seem to be awake and yet unable to move at all.

The bullying at school started too early for a likeable boy like Eric - both his parents had no control over that. He got teased for having nightmares at naptime, he got shoved into dark corners when the other kids found out he was afraid of the dark.

But still, he was a good boy. He never talked back to his parents, never made too much of a fuss over anything really - except baking, and later, skating. 

His parents paid whatever it took to get Eric into Katya's classes, which everyone else said was stupid, especially when his own daddy was the football coach. 

“It’s just pandering,” Coaches mother said, rolling her eyes. “All the boys in the family play football. He’s just gotta toughen up.” 

“Obviously not a Phelps.” Said her husband, looking at Coach with disappointment. “A Phelps wouldn’t be such a sissy over some bad dreams.” He stopped looking at his son then, because he never did like to look too long at the boy who didn’t keep the name he was born with, instead taking his  _ wife's  _ surname on documents. 

Coach clenched his fists and his jaw to stop from yelling out: “That’s my son, and he’s doing his damn best!” because he learned a long, long time ago that his parents weren’t listening to anyone who wasn’t family. He gave that up along with his name.

The Bittles though, God. Eric was their bright shining star. Suzannes mother had a gaggle of grandchildren, but Eric was her boy, her baby, her little man. She spent more time with Eric than Coach did, teaching his clever little fingers how to press in a pie crust, how to channel his vibrant energy into something he could see and be proud of. She drove him to practice when Suzanne was out doing one of the many jobs she could do: Cleaning other folks homes, or working on the picking lines at the farms in the area. Something an illiterate could manage. 

Erics first words were MooMaw.

And his pies were always perfect. 

It was Suzanne who said it first, although they’d all been thinking it. Her parents were round for dinner, and Eric was proudly letting his PawPaw cut the first slice of pie. He liked to see the expression on everyone's face as they ate. He had a giant purple and green bruise on his leg where he’d fallen when skating, and a smaller, more painful one on his arm where some of the boys in his class had grabbed, and twisted. 

The pie was cherry, Eric's favorite, although he didn’t make it much because it was a little too overwhelming for every day. But this was also his PawPaw's favorite, and so Eric had made it special, with the perfectly ripe cherries that Suzanne had brought home. 

“Well, damn.” PawPaw said, after taking a bite. “That’s some mighty good pie!”

Eric beamed. His smile big and bright and lighting up the room. 

“He’s got some gift in the kitchen.” Suzanne said, unthinking, proud of her son.

Coach slammed his fist on the table, making Eric jump, and got to his feet. “All this for a fucking pie.” He spat.

It was the only time Eric ever heard his father swear and the last time he ate one of Eric's pies. 

* * *

 

High School wasn’t any better, Eric didn’t grow out of his nightmares, or out of his bullies reach. He loved to bake, loved to skate, won prizes for both - but that just made him more of a target.

The final straw for his parents was the night he didn’t come home and they both feared the worst. The bullying had gotten so bad that almost every day their baby came home with a new bruise, a limp, a graze he wouldn’t explain. Suzanne waited by the door for 5 hours before she started to cry.

“They’ve killed him.” She sobbed, as her mother tried to smooth her hair back from her face and cooed meaningless, soothing sounds. “They’ve done it this time.”

They hadn’t. Eric had been found the following morning by the janitor, locked in a dark supply closet overnight. 

They moved.

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

“Hello internet land!” Eric beamed at the laptop camera. He was so excited that he’d hardly started unpacking his things before he had the laptop open and ready to record. “Some of my more adept followers may have noticed the change in location and noticed correctly… I’m in my freshman dorm at Samwell!” 

He tried to tone down the squealing a little bit, but it was hard. He had never been so nervous and excited in his life. He’d already managed to find a kitchen that was open, so he could ‘get his gift on’ like people would say in songs or in movies. Talking about his gift at home was hard, but here it was so, so different.

“Welcome!” The Dean had said to the 100 or so new students who sat in the auditorium. “It’s a wonderful feeling to be standing here, in front of what will be the Graduating Class of 2017. You represent the bulk of our student athletes, carrying on the great Wellie Tradition of playing fair, playing right, and playing with pride.”

Everyone had clapped. Bitty had clapped. 

“We have a policy here at Samwell - if you pay the price, we’ll pave the way. For many years we have supported students who have lost something that the world says they need to graduate. Last years valedictorian speech was given by Lida Vieche, who lost her ability to read while in her Junior year. Samwell and its Wellies made sure to work  _ with  _ her and  _ for  _ her, and she is here today to talk to you about her experiences.”

Bitty and a few of the other students had gotten a little misty eyed over her story - Bitty thinking of how different things could have been for his mamma if she’d had the same support in her life, rather than being told it was all over. 

When he was walking around on the tour, a group of 20 or so getting shown around by upperclassmen, someone had asked if they had already paid. 

“Sure, mate,” A tall girl had said, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “I lost my ability to hold a tune. Sound like a cat in heat if I sing now.”

“What did you get?”

“Hell if I know.”

It started a slew of questions, answers. Bitty said he could bake the best pie anyone ever tasted, which got him some laughs and a few promises to sit by him in class if he brought proof. No one thought he was weak. Bitty felt more confident with every step. 

“Man, can you believe this? We ain't kids no more.” Someone said - voice tinged with an accent Bitty couldn’t place.

“Yeah, but we sure as fuck ain't  _ adults _ .”

The tour and the rest of the orientation was a lot to take in. It wasn’t that late when Bitty got back to his dorm room, but he took one look at the boxes around him and fell face first onto the bed.

* * *

 

He woke up groggy and uncomfortable. He was still fully dressed and face down on the bare mattress. Groaning, he pushed himself up, stumbling a little on the crap he’d just left on his floor.

He was meeting the team for the first time today and he had to make a good impression.

It wasn’t until he had finished unpacking, had a shower and was pulling a freshly cooked pie out of the student kitchens that he realised. 

His hands were shaking as he called his Mamma. She made him promise to keep her updated - and he knew this was important. 

He hadn’t had a nightmare.


	2. Chapter 2

Bitty could overlook the things his new teammates did to the pie he’d brought to the first meeting - after all, once they’d finished eating it (with their  _ hands _ ) and licking the pie plate clean (all of them…. It had to be unhygienic) they all seemed very nice. Shitty (who had a mustache that Bitty knew his father would call ‘a good sign of character’) made it real clear that he wasn’t down with ‘gift shaming’ at all - was loud and proud and “Totally fucking cool if you aren’t, I mean, it’s not for everyone, lil brah.” and made sure that when Bitty arrived for the team breakfast that he had a seat saved beside him. He was loud and funny and Bitty already knew he liked him a lot. 

“Lost my name.” He said, slapping a hand over his chest. “Shitty now. Parents hate it!” He grinned. Shitty, like a lot of people, got their gift out of the way in the first meeting. Not everyone did, but it was widely considered to be a good ice breaker. Knowing that Shitty had lost his name actually made Bitty feel even more comfortable around the loud man. It felt like a weird tie to home. 

“Coach lost his name too.” Bitty found himself saying. “Uh, my dad? He’s just… um, everyone calls him Coach Bittle.” 

“Swasome!” Shitty beamed, ruffling Eric's hair playfully. “We’re like a lil fucking family!” 

Bitty didn’t want to be the one to tell Shitty that his daddy losing his name wasn’t something he was happy about, not when Shitty looked so damn  _ happy  _ to have lost those ties. 

“For sure, my old man woulda had me being one of those cockbag douches who add another matching surname on the side of the building - but not now.” He grinned wider - spreading his arms out to map the side of a large building. “Knight, Knight, Knight & Shitty doesn’t quite have the same appeal, does it, my newest bro?”

“Not really.” Bitty agreed, because talking to Shitty was a little like talking to a train, you could follow the tracks but you certainly weren’t keeping up or steering. “Lawyers?” He hazzard a guess. There wasn’t really anything else it could be with a sign like that.

“The super shitty kind.” Shitty nodded. “You know, extra WASP-y, extra douch-y? So sure, I’m gonna follow in the ‘family footsteps’ like the rest of the clones, but then I’m gonna  **_fuck it up_ ** .” He sang the last part, twisting his fingers as if he was holding onto an invisible fret of an air guitar. “Like, I dunno. Family law? I wanna fuckin help people, not sell my soul to corporate assholes.”

When he went to get his own food - or what looked like the second plate of whatever he’d been eating when Bitty arrived, he nodded in the direction of the D-men who were sitting on the other side of Bitty. 

Ransom and Holster - sorry, Holster and Ransom, were more of what Bitty was expecting from his team. Holster was a blond giant who spent the same amount of time talking about girls as he did hockey, and Ransom - who didn’t say much at first because he was already studying. “He’ll snap out of it in a day or two.” Holster said, when Ransom pulled out some more highlighters. “He’s delicate.”

He certainly didn’t  _ look  _ delicate, solidly build and beautiful, but Eric wasn’t going to mention that at all. He spent a very long time not mentioning things like that at all. Growing up in rural Georgia had been hard for him in more ways than his crappy childhood. 

They were best friends, “BFF’s for like, life.” Was how Holster - Adam Birkholtz, who had a fondness for making spreadsheets about people he just met - put it. “We’re life bros.” He paused and looked down at his laptop. “Favorite colour?”

While Bitty filled him in on the things that he apparently required to get a ‘halfway decent result, bro’ Ransom continued to read, type and highlight his way through a book bigger than the Bittle Family Bible. Every now and then he’d look up, say something to Holster or Bitty, mostly about the never ending list of questions that Holster was asking - and then go back to his book. 

“Niki or Beyonce?” 

Eric looked up from his pastry and blinked. “Are you really asking me that? Beyonce is… she’s… she’s  _ Beyonce _ !” 

“Bro.” Ransom said, leaning over Holsters laptop to hold out a fist for Bitty to bump. “ _ Bro _ .”

Bitty had a good idea that they were going to be friendly towards him at the very least, as he tapped his fist against Ransoms. It was a nice feeling, and he let himself enjoy it.

Meeting Jack though… meeting Jack was…

He’d already learned about Jack from Shitty, who referred to him as “The most glorious asshole on the team” and “it’s like if hockey and playgirl had a fucking baby and Jackie was the result”. From Holster he found out that he was also the Captain of the team and had been since his second year, where he was voted in on his ‘swasome skillz’ and ‘mad blue eyes’.

Ransom actually stopped reading his textbook to add in a few other bits of insight. “He’s a good guy, just a bit hockey centric.” He said, glancing up when Shitty gave out a yell that echoed around the room, causing half of the students to jerk in their seats and the other half to mutter something about ‘that fucking team again’ which Bitty was starting to see was a bit of a  _ thing _ . 

“Here he is, look at that walk! The power, the grace! The best ass in sports!” 

Bitty blushed. Shitty had certainly proved to be the loudest person he’d ever met - it was a little embarrassing and also a little bit of a thrill to be sitting beside him. Like for once he was part of the loud, boisterous table, the funny table. Not eating his lunch in the toilets.

Then he saw Jack. Tall - although a good couple of inches shorter than Holster - with messy dark hair and a frown deeper than his Granma Phelps. Although he didn’t looked too happy that Shitty was still crowing about his butt, his eyes or his ‘fucking razor cheekbones, I mean, holy shit dude’ he didn’t try to make the other man shut up either. 

“Oh, dude, this is Eric Bittle. He makes pie.  _ Pie _ .”

“The best pie.”

“Like wow, bro.”

“Wait, did Jack miss Bitty’s pie?”

Eric tried not to blush at the praise that smattered around the table about his baking skills. Everyone was nodding and grinning, throwing Bitty a couple of thumbs up too. He wondered if this was what it was going to be like, at Samwell. He’d been made to feel so welcome. 

Jack didn’t say anything as he filled his plate with eggs, a single slice of toast and two green smoothies, the team talking about Eric's pie, what they got up to over the break.

Just before he sat down, Jack looked at Eric, slowly taking him in. Bitty wanted to stand up, stand to attention, like he was always told to do by his Granpa Phelps because “Aint no good slouchin’ down like that, boy.”

“Eat more protein.” Was all he said, words clipped and authoritative - giving Bitty a hard once over. Bitty was used to being made fun of for being  _ average  _ height by the footballers that followed Coach around like puppies, but he thought that people might be a little better about it at college. 

Apparently not. 

But they had the first team practice that day, and Eric knew that he was good at hockey. He was good enough to get a scholarship to a great school, with a division 1 team. 

He looked down at his pastry and picked it up decisively. He was going to prove to Jack Zimmerman that he was a good player  _ and  _ an asset to the Samwell team. 

* * *

 

Bitty set up the camera and blinked at the screen. He didn’t look different. He didn’t even feel that much different. But he certainly… was. He was different. 

“So, um… as y’all know, I was captain of my high school co-ed hockey team. It’s one of the reasons I got this scholarship - I’m a good hockey player.” He rubbed his eyes quickly. “I’m a  _ great  _ hockey player on a no checking team. But this isn’t… this isn’t high school and today…” He paused, rubbed at his eyes again. He’d done his crying earlier, and he wasn’t going to do it on camera. 

“I was on the ice and I was doing really well, you know! I got a couple of sweet shots in glove side of Johnson - he said something about that would help the universe along later; he’s kinda weird? - but I was doing really well. I’m sure as heck faster on the ice than anyone on the team.” He paused at that, not really able to stop the little smile at formed on his lips. “I smoked them  _ all  _ in suicides - I could see Coach Murry and Hall taking notes about that! I gotta remember to tell Coach - he’ll like to know that.” He said, with a smile. “He doesn’t really get hockey but he does get coaching, so he’ll understand. I was having a really great time! But then we started playing… and then Jack yelled something and…”

Eric took a breath. An other. One more for good measure. 

“I fainted. Well… I didn’t faint. I just kind of… you know... “ He looked down at his hands, they were still shaking, and swallowed. “It looked like I fainted. But I didn’t. I… I got it wrong. Everyone got it  _ wrong _ .” He couldn’t help the hiccup there. He was going to have to edit that out. It still didn’t seem real. “My gift. It’s not baking. And I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between posting the first chapter and this! I'm so out of practice writing that it's been way harder to stick to a multi-chapter thing than I was expecting - 50 short stories will do that to you!
> 
> I hope you like the new chapter and don't hate me for the ending! All will be revealed!
> 
> Eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short but hopefully answers some questions that you might have about Bitty and his Gift!

It was taking a long time for Eric to settle into his new gift. He’d heard about people who had struggled to come to terms with the gift that they received - but normally there was some kind of yahoo answers or a forum on Reddit that you could find someone going through the same thing. Bitty had looked. Nothing.

Not that he was expecting to find anything. Gifts tended to be… well… there wasn’t a gift you hadn’t heard of. With all the people in the world, it was bound to happen that some gifts showed up more than once - prices too. 

Shitty and Coach losing their names wasn’t super common, but Bitty had heard of a few cases, through movies, or songs. A lot of people lost body parts - little fingers, big toes, the appendix. Nothing that would kill you - no one lost a heart or a lung, but everyone knew someone with that price. Bitty went to middle school with a girl who had lost her toe nails and a boy who lost his fingernails. 

Gifts tended to be the same. Everyone knew someone who could grow their hair at will. Everyone heard through a friend of a friend about someone who could fix anything they tinkered with. Movies and music were saturated with Soul Bonded couples, the always lucky, the never late… 

But Bitty had never, not once heard of anything like this - and he knew he was in trouble. 

When applying for scholarships, there was a section - confidential but required - where you had to put your price (approximate wording of the Midnight Light gift if you knew it) and the Gift that you had, if you knew it. 

Bitty had carefully typed in ‘Joyous Childhood’ under the price he had (or was going to have) and under his gift he’d typed ‘Best Baker in the South’ with a smile. But that was a lie. It hadn’t been a lie at the time, but it was a lie now, and Bitty wasn’t sure where that put him now. If anyone found out, was he going to be expelled? Could they remove his scholarship? 

These things were there for a reason. 

* * *

 

There was a time when gifts weren’t… as closely monitored. People just got on with things and a lot of people preferred that. But things changed after the war. People became aware that certain gifts were… not bad, but certainly not… appropriate.

The Gift of persuasion, where a leader could talk his way into and out of terrible crimes. The Gift of Future sight, where a person could predict with clarity what was going to happen within 24 hours. Sports Stars who could never lose. These gifts weren’t dangerous - but they lead to things that certainly skewed things in the direction of the gifted. They still happened - but people were made aware that their new employee had a gift of being able to make other people do things, sports were very strict in that if your gift effected your play - like never dropping a ball, or super strength - that this was taken into account. Couch had often been annoyed when a gift like that would show up on his team.

“The Garvey boy’s gift showed up in practice.” He said, over dinner. “Knocked my best quarterback half way down the 50 year line.” He shook his head. “Had to drop him. Shame, damn shame. Kid loves football.”

“Maybe he’ll find something else he loves.” Bitty had tried, but his daddy had just shook his head. 

“Damn shame.”

So what the hell was going to happen to  _ Bitty _ ?

* * *

 

It was okay, really, unless someone knocked into him, and then it happened. Through the day, Bitty could avoid people banging into him like it was second nature - after all, he’d been avoiding bullies most of his life. But on the ice it was different - he couldn’t stop himself from the shock of impact, his gift filling his head.

It had been Jack first - Jack who’d checked him that first practice - and Bitty could not wipe the images that played over in his head. He knew he should try to stop thinking about it, but he couldn’t.

* * *

 

Jacks price was… well known. His parents had given interviews (as most semi famous people did) when Jack was born, shaking their heads over the seemingly cryptic price - “His first last breath” and Bitty had found this out with very little help from google. 

He’d gone right on his laptop after practice because he knew… he knew that it was invasive and horrible and not something he should do to his teammate, but he had to make sure… make sure he wasn’t going mad. 

* * *

 

Jack was on the bathroom floor - pale, drawn in. Smaller than Bitty knew he was now - with floppy dark hair falling over his unfocused eyes. The shower was running, slowly draining away because of what looked like vomit half clogging the plug. Bitty could smell the overpowering scent of aftershave and deodorant, like it had been sprayed liberally to mask the smell of something worse. It caught in the back of his throat, and he couldn’t help the cough that burst out of him. Jack, unfocused and trembling, didn’t seem to see, or hear him. 

“Jack?” He tried, leaning forward. No response from his new captain, dressed in a neat black slacks. His white shirt was damp though - through the water from the shower or sweat, it was hard to tell. The bathroom door was locked, Bitty already knew, because someone was banging on it impatiently. 

“Zims! Come on, for fuck sake.” A male voice Bitty didn’t recognize was yelling. “If you don’t haul ass in 5 minutes I’m calling your mom!” One last bang that sounded more like a swift kick than a knock, and then nothing but the sound of water hitting the tub. 

Jack was still trembling, but it seemed to be getting better - slowing down so that it was only a shudder every now and then, as though he was cold. His eyes though, seemed hazier - even less focused than before. He’d stopped blinking completely now, staring through Bitty as though he wasn’t there. Bitty knew he wasn’t, not really. He might never have heard of a gift like this, but he knew what it was, deep in his bones.

Jack took a breath, in slowly and out. The exhale took longer than it should have, and Bitty knew what he was seeing.

A last breath. 

The first last breath Jack Zimmerman would take. 

It took longer than Bitty would have hoped for the door to be opened, a woman who he already knew was Jack's mother, model and actress Alicia Zimmerman, holding a bobby pin that she’d obviously used to pick the bathroom lock. In the mirror over Jack's body, Bitty could see the look of pleased determination that was on her face before she realized what she was looking at. 

Her scream jolted Bitty out of his skin, and back onto the ice at Faber, where everyone was looking at him like he belonged in a zoo. 

“Fainting goats, man.” Shitty was saying, and Eric should have said something then. He should have. But he didn’t. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Shitty?” Eric said, walking back from the quad where the older man had been waiting for him to finish his class. Shitty had made it his mission to make sure Eric felt safe after his fainting fit on the ice, but normally he was with Jack, or one of the other guys. This time he was alone, and Eric was… scared.

“Sup, lil dude?” Shitty said, completely unaware of the turmoil that was going on inside of Eric. He looked at ease with the world, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargo shorts and a baseball cap turned backwards, keeping his flow from blowing around in the slight breeze. 

Eric envied him for so many different reasons. The way he always seemed at ease in his movements, in his voice being heard, his actions being taken the right way - They spoke of a much more confident, and slightly overbearing, person that he might one day become. 

“What… what would happen if someone lied about their Gift?” Eric managed to get out - his voice a little too high but maybe Shitty wouldn’t quite notice over the other sounds around them, the wind, the laughter of the girls over on the benches, the geese overhead. 

“Well, I guess it happens, sometimes.” He shrugged. “And I get why people might think it’s a good idea, but like, it’s not awesome to hide that away. It can cause all kinds of trouble and, well… you gotta be true to  _ yourself _ .” He looked at Eric with a smile, softer than Bitty had been expecting. It made him feel a little braver. 

“But… what if… what if you thought you already had a Gift, but it turned out that you didn’t? And then you got it later? And you’d already put what you  _ thought  _ your Gift was on all your applications and scholarships?” Bitty’s words rushed out of him like a dam bursting, flowing over his lips without realising he was giving far too much away. He trusted Shitty, trusted him more than anyone he’d met at Samwell so far. He paid the same price as his daddy and for some reason that made him feel so familiar. 

“I think,” Shitty said, stroking a hand down his moustache. “That you didn’t faint because of the check, maybe?”

“Maybe?” Bitty hedged, with a slight shrug.

“I think it would be okay, if that were to happen. It’s a weird thing, Gifts, they pop up at odd times. People would understand.”

Bitty nodded. He knew that was true. “But…” He took a breath, trying to find the words. “But what if it was a Gift you’d never even  _ heard  _ of before?”

“That's supes unlikely, brah.” Shitty grinned. “There are too many people in the world for a truly unique Gift. Rare ones, probably. But not unheard of.” 

“But what… what if… what if you spent the last week researching online, and in the archives and at the library and… and you still never found  _ anything  _ like it?”

Shitty stopped walking and looked at Eric with a slightly more serious edge. “Then I’d say this calls for a coffee and a slice of pie, and a little more research.” The older man gave a smile. “I got your back, Bitty.”

* * *

 

“So you saw… the exact moment the price was paid?” Shitty was saying, and there was a little bit of pie crust on his mustache that he’d missed when he was using his sleeve to wipe at his mouth. 

“Um, maybe like… a few seconds before and after?” Bitty hedged. He hadn’t told Shitty what he’d seen, and he had never been so grateful that the older man hadn’t decided to push him on that. He didn’t want to spill any secrets, and he had no idea what Jack had told people. If he’d told people. “I had enough time to look around, figure out what was going on.” He thought about it again. “I knew what I was seeing. It wasn’t like… it wasn’t like ‘oh this might be this’ it was more like… ‘I know what this is’. A hundred percent.”

“So not past sight?”

“No.”

“Maybe it was a memory share - those are rare but-”

“There is no way they remembered this.” Bitty said, firmly. Jack had his eyes open, but Eric knew that he wasn’t truly conscious. He was already well into his last moments when Eric had arrived. 

The coffee Shitty had made and the pie Eric brough out of the fridge was long gone, and books were lying open on the kitchen table. Shitty had pulled out his laptop at the start of what he was calling ‘Project Bits’ but it too, was now pushed back - screen black after half an hour of sitting idle. 

“No one, ever, has been able to see the Price.” Shitty said. Not for the first time in the hours that they’d been pouring over books. The rest of the house were somewhere else, having been chased out of the kitchen not once or twice, but four times by Shitty. 

“I swear to the hockey gods, if you try to get through here one more time Justin Oranzi, I will personally piss on your bunk while you sleep!” 

“But pie!”

“This is not pie for you! This is reserch pie, got your back pie and helping a bro out pie - get gone!”

“I know.” Bitty agreed. “No one sees the price. It’s just… it just happens.” 

“It’s… well…” Shitty ran his hand over his face. “Bitty, no one in the last 200 years has had a new gift. No one. It’s… this is huge.” He paused. “It’s also… Eric, this is a really  _ invasive  _ Gift. You’re a spectator in what can be one of the most traumatic moments in a person's life.”

Bitty lowered his head. That's what he had been worried about. 

“I’m going to be regulated.” He managed to get out, before his throat closed up. 

There were Gifts, Gifts that put a person beyond what the governments of the world decided was ‘safe’. Those who could make others do things, things they didn’t want - or those who could hurt people with a thought, break someone's leg with a blink. Future sight, where Gifted people could see what was going to happen a day or so before it did, winning lotto numbers, disasters, terror attacks. Mind manipulation, a death touch, those who couldn’t be killed, couldn’t die… Before the War, those people had been dangerous, wild and uncontrollable - the reason for the War. Now, they were regulated. It was a nice word for a not-so-nice system. Isolated, observed, medicated. They normally ‘lived’ their lives in special housing that more closely resembled prisons, with limited interaction with those whom they could, possibly, harm.

“Like hell you are.” Shitty said, leaning forward, and grabbing onto Eric's arm. “I’m not going to let-”

* * *

 

There was a boy, maybe a few years younger than Eric, sitting in what could only be called an oversized conservatory, looking bored. Around him, people were chatting, nice suits, pretty dresses. Something his mamma would call ‘Sunday Best’ but probably a lot nicer than that. The boy though, was the only one sitting, as the people milled around, chatting with one another.

“And this must be the heir apparent!” A man said, appearing by the delicate looking couch the boy was sat on. The man was overly tanned, with pale white hair and a wide tie, and he smiled like he knew the punchline to a joke you weren’t smart enough to figure out. 

“That’s my boy.” Another man said, and Bitty knew what he was seeing. The man was older than Shitty by at least thirty years, but there was no mistaking the likeness. The same colour hair, the same shape of nose. “Stand up and greet our guests,” The man said, throwing a look at the boy still sitting on the couch. Bitty knew that look, he’d seen his aunts and uncles give it a lot to their kids. The “Don’t you dare embarrass me in public or you’ll regret it later” look. 

The boy got to his feet and held out his hand, proper as you like. “My son -” The next words seemed to stick in the older man's throat. “My son -”

“Hello sir,” young Shitty said, “I’m pleased to meet you.” He sounded about as bored as he looked. 

His father, Mr Knight, Bitty guessed, seemed to have realised what was going on. “Why don’t you run along, hm?” He said, making an indulgent face. “Christ knows when I was his age I wouldn’t want to be stuck here when I could be chasing some skirts!” 

The overly tanned man laughed loudly, and young Shitty made his escape. Eric wondered if he even realised what he’d just lost.

* * *

 

“Anything happen to you, okay?” Shitty paused, and looked at Eric. “You okay, Bits? I got your back.”

Gingerly, Eric put his fingers on top of the hand that had gripped his arm. “I’m sorry, Shitty.” He managed. “I didn’t mean…”

Later, Eric would remember how well Shitty seemed to understand everything Eric was trying to say. He didn’t pull his hand away like he’d been burnt by touching Eric's skin. 

“Did you see… my Price?”

Eric could only nod, the lump in his throat making talking seem impossible. 

“When was it?” Shitty asked, looking a little shaken but not… not disgusted. Intrigued. Interested. 

“There was a party, I think?” Eric said, voice a little shaky. “Um, in a glass house?”

Shitty huffed a laugh, but he didn’t sound like he found that too funny. “Cheya. I know where ya are.”

“And your dad was there? And he tried to introduce you to… to… but he couldn’t say your name. Then he made a joke about chasing skirts and let you leave.”

Shitty blinked. 

“Well… shit.” He said, after a long pause, too long for Eric who was starting to worry. “I thought it was after that. My father went off on some business trip and my mom was… fuck, I don’t even remember. It was a couple weeks before anyone realised I’d lost the name.” 

“Your dad knew.” Eric found himself saying. “It’s why he let you leave.” 

“Right.” Shitty said, firmly, pulling back. Eric recoiled, realising he’d gone too far. “Eric, I need you to stand up.”

“Shitty, I’m so sor-”

“We are gonna hug this out like real fucking men who have shared a fucking _swasome_ bonding moment.”

The next thing Bitty knew, he was being wrapped up in the solid arms of his friend.

And then he fainted. 

* * *

 

Shitty was there, looking out over a frozen lake, older - hair a little shorter, ‘tash a little thicker - dressed in what Eric would call ‘real clothes’ and not the half naked frat boy special that he seemed to always wear around the Haus. 

“I know I can’t see you, Bits.” He was saying. “But I think this is the place.” He paused, looking around, eyes passing over Eric as though he wasn’t standing a few yards away. “Yup, can’t see ya. I’m 37 and three weeks old. You told me about this. In the Haus. About the lake and your Gift. It’s a helluva fucking Gift you’ve got there, my tiny baking friend.” He grinned at the air, misting with his breath. “Been waiting for this for a while.”

Suddenly, Erics eyes were pulled to the lake, frozen solid - a figure wobbling on the ice. A little boy, probably no older than three or four, wrapped up in so many layers that it was impossible to make out any features at all, waved over. “Pappa! See!” He called out, before falling on his backside and giggling. Eric blinked, and the child was gone, and Shitty had tears in his eyes. “My gift.” He said, looking at the lake. “Is seeing my kids before they arrive.”

He looked around. “We just found out she’s pregnant.” 

* * *

 

Unlike the time at the rink, when Bitty opened his eyes and saw Shitty looking down at him, he knew he should say something. 

And he did. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to make any promises about updating as I work a really shitty rota and find it SUPER hard to get time to write. So I will do my best to update but can't confirm a schedule, sorry. 
> 
> This is an expanded version on my tumblr ficlet that people seemed to like, and feedback would be great.


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